


The Rebel and the Captain

by dandelionlily



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mutilation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison camp, War, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionlily/pseuds/dandelionlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Oliver is trying to run a prison camp and hold onto his sanity until the slave rebellion is over. His newest prisoner is going to make that difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tour of the Jefferson plantation and the eternal question "What if..."
> 
> WARNING: This is a work in progress, and I am pretty bad about finishing them. You have been warned.

Captain Oliver woke to the knock on his door. He straightened in his chair and winced. Falling asleep on his desk caused all of his neck and shoulder muscles to cramp, and he could only hope the pressure hadn’t left red marks on his face. He ran his fingers through his military brush cut and checked that his eye patch was still in place. Fourteen months ago, falling asleep on the job would have earned him a knife across the throat from a rebel scout, but that was before he had lost his right eye and been pulled back from the front lines. “Come in.”

The private who entered looked barely old enough to shave. He was still adjusting to his growth spurt, judging by the way he smacked one shoulder into into the door frame. “Captain. Reporting the arrival of the convoy, sir.”

“Thank you, Private… ah…”

“Benson, sir.” He snapped a salute that tried to make up for it sloppiness with its enthusiasm.

 “Private Benson. Yes. Thank you.” The soldier didn’t recognize the dismissal and hovered at the door. “Private, please fetch the doctor. He’ll be needed to inspect the new prisoners.”

“Yes, sir!” He took off at a jog, even through the summer’s heat.

Captain Oliver stood more slowly and put on his uniform jacket. He picked up his flail and checked it carefully, even though he was certain he had gotten all of the blood off during the previous night’s cleaning. Before stepping outside he pulled his revolver, checked the ammo and returned it to its holster with practiced motions. The camp was running smoothly, but there was no reason to let down his guard. He walked towards the camp’s one entrance, where a truck was already unloading the prisoners. He could tell that these rats had come straight from the front: they didn’t have the sunken, dull eyes that marked transferred prisoners. Sergeant Harvey was keeping them silent with just the sound of his riding crop slapping against his thigh. When one of the shackled men murmered to his neighbor, Harvey was on them instantly, his weapon leaving bloody welts on their arms and shoulders.

Oliver frowned at the line. There were three sets of empty shackles. It was army policy to only count the prisoners when they reached a prison camp, but it was difficult enough reaching coal quotas without healthy prisoners being killed in transport. He looked for the driver, but he was missing. So were two of the guards who should have been watching the gates. “Sergeant,” he barked, “where the hell are the rest of the guards?”

Harvey’s salute was a hair slower than it should have been when he turned to face his commanding officer. “They’re educating a prisoner, sir.”

Under his breath, Oliver cursed his assignment as commander of the eastern labor camp and the men who supposedly followed his orders. Returning the salute, he set out at a brisk jog towards the back of the cantina, one of the few places in the camp that was not visible to his office or the guard towers. He heard the familiar sounds of flesh being struck just before he rounded the corner and saw the “education” taking place. A prisoner was pinned flat on the ground by a boot on the side of his head. A soldier was taking his turn kicking the prone man in the side and stomach while a man Oliver didn’t recognize—doubtless the driver—knelt on the victim’s legs to keep him immobile. From his light skin, the victim was clearly a half-breed, which was unusual enough to have gotten the guards’ particular attentions.

“Stop!” The soldiers, accustomed to obeying that tone of command without question, backed away and saluted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Command has once again increased the expected production of this mine, and we haven’t been meeting quotas as it is. The only way we will meet this week’s requirements is for these additional prisoners to be able to work. That is the reason—the ONLY reason—we are here, men. To make sure the work gets done. If the prisoners are unable to work, I swear to Mishra it will be you four down in the tunnels.” The captain glared at his men. “Privates. Consecutive latrine duty for three weeks each. Lieutenant Fawkes, you’ll be overseeing B mine for the next month. And go put on a fresh uniform; you have blood on your collar. As for you,” he said, turning to the driver, “your CO will hear about this. You are all dismissed; get the hell back to your stations right now.” 

The men left, their angry grumbling too quiet for Oliver to call them on it. He squatted next to the prisoner, who was slowly sitting up and pulling his rough-spun shirt down to cover his injuries. A bruise on his right side was already turning dark; there was likely internal bleeding. Oliver grabbed his elbow to help him to his feet but froze when the prisoner turned to face him. “You,” Oliver exclaimed. Even with one eye swollen mostly shut and a broken nose, the captain couldn’t fail to recognize the rebel leader whose face was smeared across a hundred war posters. “You’re Gutierrez.”

Staggering to his feet under his own power, the darker man said, “If you expect me to thank you, you will be disappointed.” He spoke softly with an upper-class, cultured accent. Oliver struck the man’s jaw. Did the uppity rat really think that just because he spoke like an educated man, he would be treated as one? Gutierrez met the captain’s eyes, goading him to strike again.

There was a ghost of something Oliver recognized in the prisoner’s level gaze. Looking closer, the camp commander could see the delicate scars tracing his hands and arms, and his anger died suddenly. This man had been reported captured four months ago and had doubtless spent the intervening time under the care of Central’s most talented interrogators. In his career the captain had met a number of those cold-eyed men with surgeon’s fingers, and he counted himself lucky to have only witnessed them in action twice. He had seen the results of their work more often: the prisoners usually arrived at the camp as zombies who wouldn’t eat or sleep and would soil themselves or collapse shaking at loud noises. Fortunately, they usually recovered basic functionality within a couple of weeks left in the care of their fellow prisoners. Judging from the fresh scars, this man had recovered with astonishing speed. Gutierrez returned the captain’s scrutiny with blue eyes that almost hid the hollowness of old terror.

The captain escorted Gutierrez back to the other new arrivals, pleased to see that James was already examining them. Each was instructed to perform a couple of exercises and to cough. The previous commander of the Eastern prisoner’s camp had resigned in disgrace after nearly all of his prisoners had died from the red cough; Oliver would execute all these prisoners as contaminated before he would risk a repeat. When he was finished, the doctor reported in an undertone, “The majority are in good health. Remarkably well-fed, considering the famine. Fifth from the right has an infected cut on his back; I’ll lance it and clean it out. Should be obvious in a few days whether or not he’ll make it. Third from the right has a torn tendon in his knee. He won’t be able to work.”

Oliver walked down the line, confirming what the doctor had reported. The rats were remarkably well-fed, without the sunken eyes or bloated stomachs he was accustomed to seeing from prisoners and was starting to see even among Central’s civilian population. How were the rebels surviving a three-year famine that should have wiped them out completely, given their primitive farming methods? Oliver supposed it didn’t matter; right now, he needed to put on a show that would keep the bastards in line.

 The camp commander didn’t hesitate when he reached the man with the torn tendon. He grabbed the man’s head with both hands and twisted sharply; Oliver felt the spine snap and let the body fall. The captain fully expected the gasp of shock from the prisoners and the enraged attack, but not the latter’s speed. Before he could elbow his attacker in the nose, a thick, dark arm snaked around his neck from behind and lifted him off his feet. Oliver stomped a booted foot onto one of the assailant’s bare ones and jerked his head back, feeling the head-butt connect and break the man’s nose. Unfortunately, his arm didn’t loosen at all. There was shouting as soldiers tried to find a way to shoot the prisoner without endangering their commanding officer and the sound of gunfire as they tried to scare the attacker. Oliver felt fingers on his jaw turning his head to the right, but didn’t register the rat’s intentions until his head was slowly rotated beyond ninety degrees and his neck muscles began to tear. He closed his eyes.

“Mantay, stop! Release him.” The voice’s unmistakable authority cut through all the other noise, and Oliver’s jaw—if not his throat—was released. The captain could only blink at the pale brown hand that rested on the arm encircling his throat.

“He killed Gupta. Like he was just an animal to be put down.” The low voice rumbled under Oliver’s ear, and the captain could feel that the large man was tensed to the breaking point.

“Mantay, we both know he wouldn’t have lasted a week here, not with his leg hurt like that. At least he died quick. Now let the captain go.” Black dots were creeping in from the edges of Oliver’s vision, blotting everything out. When he was suddenly released he stumbled forward, hands grabbing onto someone to keep from falling down. Gasping and choking on the fresh air, the captain’s sight cleared enough to see blue eyes in a brown face; Oliver discovered that his hand was gripping Gutierrez’s shoulder for support. The rebel leader frowned and gripped his shoulder in return—hard. “You owe me. Don’t kill Mantay.”

Then Harvey was there, crop swinging, and the support was gone. “Captain! Are you all right, sir? I’ll take care of that rabid beast,” Harvey offered, pulling his pistol and taking aim at Mantay.

“Don’t.”

 Harvey paused, cocked his head. “Did you want to kill him yourself, sir?”

The camp commander took a deep breath, pleased that the bruising around his throat wasn’t too bad. “Put shackles on his feet, but not on his hands. And take this.” He handed Harvey his pistol, overrode the soldier’s protests and watched as another man shackled Mantay. Oliver took a rifle from one of the guards, unloaded it and turned to stare down his opponent, who was standing relaxed but ready. The soldiers had gotten in a few good hits; one of Mantay’s eyes was swelling shut and his nose was broken, but he seemed otherwise uninjured.

“What’s your number?”

A mutinous expression crossed Mantay’s face, but he looked to Gutierrez, who shook his head slightly. “Sixteen hundred and thirty-one,” the man growled.

Oliver stripped out of his uniform jacket. “Prisoner one-six-three-one, in my ten months here you’re the first rat to get the drop on me. You have my full attention now. When you come at me this time, none of the guards will stop you.”

Mantay looked at the other soldiers, his suspicion obvious when he turned to face the camp commander. He had at least three inches and forty pounds on the wiry captain. “You gonna beat me down with an empty gun?”

Oliver’s smile could have cut glass. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

From the first charge, Mantay’s strategy was obvious: get in close and rip the rifle away or pin the smaller man. Still, his speed managed to catch Oliver off guard again. The captain rolled with the punch to his stomach, going into a backward somersault and regaining his feet just in time to sidestep another blow. He caught the larger man in the jaw with a side snap before knocking the air out of him with a spinning back-kick to the sternum. A quick blow to the skull with the butt of the rifle would have put him down for the count, but Mantay blocked and sent the captain flying with a backhand. The smaller man tasted blood. Oliver managed to sweep his opponent, but staggered when Mantay landed a solid kick from the ground that made his knee buckle. Oliver rolled away again and threw Mantay the next time he charged. Immediately Oliver was on top of him, straddling his chest and once again striking his temple with the butt of the gun. Mantay’s hands closed around the captain’s bruised throat. Before Harvey could interfere, Oliver struck the inside of his opponent’s elbows hard enough to loosen the grip and twisted up and out of reach. Mantay stumbled to his feet, the glazed look in his eyes suggesting that he had a concussion.

From that point on the fight became more of a beating, as Mantay could no longer block the side-thrusts and front kicks that Oliver rained down while staying just out of the reach of the prisoner’s arms. Still, the captain was sweating and red-faced by the time Mantay was no longer able to rise. The camp commander gestured the doctor over to check on the fallen fighter and quickly did a check of his own teeth and jaw, pleased to find them intact. Glancing at the prisoners, he noted that they seemed suitably cowed; all except Gutierrez, who was watching the captain with an inscrutable expression.

“As soon as the doc’s done checking him over, I want prisoner one-six-three-one shackled hand and food and chained to the bunk nearest the door. He won’t be eating for the next three days. Get the rest assigned to work crews, fed and locked in for the night. Except him,” Oliver pointed to Gutierrez. “Have the doctor take a look and then bring him to my office.” With his jacket over his arm, the captain walked stiffly away after retrieving his pistol, stopping by the infirmary for an ice pack and a few painkillers before returning to his office. He stripped off his dirty, bloodstained undershirt, wondering if the stain came from his split lip or Mantay’s bloody nose. He filled the sink with cold water and plunged his face in, swishing some around in his mouth to rinse out the cut there. Hearing a rap on the door, he pulled on a clean shirt and called, “Come in.”

 Benson entered with Gutierrez. “What did the doctor say?” he asked the private. 

“Sir! He said there was heavy bruising on prisoner one-four-seven-five, but nothing life-threatening. He recommended light work for the next few days, sir!” 

“Good. Wait outside.” They saluted each other and the young soldier began to pull Gutierrez out. “Leave the prisoner.” Benson looked as if he wanted to protest, but thought better of it when Oliver raised an impatient eyebrow. He ducked out and closed the door.

The captain walked to the corner cabinet where he kept glasses and a pitcher of water. There was brandy too, but Oliver was trying to ignore it until tonight at least. He filled two glasses with water and put one on the desk in front of Gutierrez, who was looking around the office with a measuring gaze. Oliver sat and drank while watching the other man, trying to understand why Command had sent the former rebel commander to a small prisoner camp. Of the two brothers who had started the rebellion, Jared and Gutierrez, this one was the acknowledged tactician. If they were finished interrogating him, why would he be placed at a prison camp instead of executed and his body paraded through the streets? Frankly, it made Oliver nervous to have the man in his custody. It was only a matter of time until the next prison camp riot, and the captain didn’t want one to succeed on his watch. That left Oliver with two choices: summarily execute Gutierrez and risk a reprimand from his superiors, or find a way to turn the other prisoners against him.

Assuring himself that the decision wasn’t because the man had saved his life, Oliver made his pitch: “I’ve decided to take you under my protection. You’re a quick thinker, and I think the other prisoners may listen to you, so you’ll be my go-between. You should be able to understand just how precarious this camp’s position is. If our production falls further below quota, if there’s an outbreak of the cough, or if there’s a riot, Command won’t bother to transport all of the prisoners to other camps; they’ll just raze this one with everyone in it. So I need you to keep the others in line, let me know what’s brewing while I can still head it off. You’ll get permanent light duty and a larger food ration, not to mention protection from the guards.” The favorable treatment ought to drive a wedge between Gutierrez and the other prisoners. At least he didn't have to deal with Jared; it was well known that the rebels gave their allegiance to their own kind and barely paid lip service to the half-breed.

“If I refuse?”

First the carrot, then the stick. They both knew how it worked. “The one who attacked me will be executed at dawn.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then it seems I must accept your gracious offer.”

“Good. This arrangement should benefit us both, prisoner one-four-seven-five.” He had caved quickly; it seemed that, reputation notwithstanding, Gutierrez was going to be manageable. Oliver raised his voice: “Private Benson? Come fetch the prisoner. Get him dinner and take him to the barracks.”

The prisoner shuffled out with his escort, who was staring at the half-breed with a mix of hatred and awe. Oliver realized that protecting the former rebel leader from the guards wouldn’t be a simple task. He’d have to talk to Second Lieutenant Forge about it in the morning.

Oliver sat in his empty office, fingering his dog tags. It was still early in the afternoon; he could call his wife, ask her to prepare a meal for four tonight, and be home in time for dinner with his family. He dialed.

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Anne. How are you?”

“…Great! I’m just great, honey.” Anxious. Wondering if she had been found out. Oliver felt a spike of anger, but it dissipated almost immediately. How could he expect his wife to be faithful when he had been shutting her out for so long? She needed someone who would come home every night and talk about his day, his little hopes and fears. Someone who would tell her about the nightmares when he woke covered in sweat and trying to escape her embrace. Oliver couldn’t do that, not anymore.

He wouldn’t divorce her, not when his military position was the only thing guaranteeing that she and their two children received full meat and milk rations. As long as she was discreet, she deserved to find comfort where she could. Maybe she’d find a better father for the children.

“I can’t come home tonight. I’m sorry, Anne. There’s just too much work I have to finish.”

“That’s all right.” Too quick, too cheery. She didn’t even try to pull him home anymore. “I understand how important your job is. Are you eating well, dear?” The unasked question: are you still drinking yourself to sleep at night?

“Yes, Anne, I am. Give my love to the children.” He hung up the phone and poured himself the first glass of brandy.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver lay on his bedroll and stared at the rough-hewn boards of the ceiling of his office. He supposed he could have had a bed put in, but a mattress was too soft after his years sleeping on bedrolls in tents. Not that he was sleeping much better on the floorboards, despite the four—or was it five?—glasses of brandy. It was somewhere between three and four o’clock in the morning and he finally admitted that he wasn’t going to fall asleep without sleeping pills. Pills which were, unfortunately, locked up in the medical exam room. He couldn’t wake James; the nosy bastard would know immediately that he had been drinking and refuse to give him drugs. Worse, the doctor might try to get him to talk about the nightmares. James and Oliver had gone to war together, so the doctor should understand that there were things that shouldn’t be talked about, ever. 

Oliver pulled on his uniform pants and jacket over his underclothes and crossed the road to the medical building. The camp was quiet around him, with only the guards in the tower and at the gates awake. Oliver entered Jim’s office and used his master key to open the clinic’s medicine cabinet. He stole one of the medicine bottles way in the back so James wouldn’t notice immediately. When he shook out half a dozen of the pills in his hand, he paused. The green tablets he had been expecting were replaced by large white-and-pink capsules that seemed familiar. When he remembered where he’d seen them, he dropped the bottle, and the damning pills scattered across the floor.

It was the oral vaccine for the red cough. All military personnel and the civilian population had received the vaccine years ago, and even most of the loyal slaves, which meant the only population at risk for the red cough were newborns and rebels.

Frantic now, Oliver pulled bottles from the cabinet and started dumping them on the counter, scattering pills and capsules of all sizes and shapes. But over and over again, regardless of the label, the bottle was filled with the white-and-pink capsules. If it had been one or two bottles, or of a little-used type, he could have believed Jim was unaware of the smuggling. With this kind of evidence, though... “Damn you, Jim, what have you done?” he cursed aloud, then whirled about when the door to the doctor’s apartment opened.

 James stood there, rumpled in his bedclothes. “Oliver? What are you doing ...?” What James saw in Oliver’s face stopped him cold even before he noticed the vaccine pills. 

James threw himself back inside his room, but Oliver lunged forward and wedged his foot inside before the man could close the door. James scrambled over the bed and reached for his bedside table. Oliver grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him back, but James already had the weapon in his hand. Oliver grappled with him, pitting rage against the other’s desperation, and he managed to pin the other’s wrists to the bed. It was at this point that he realized what he had supposed was a weapon was only a wristwatch.

James took advantage of the moment’s distraction to break the stronger man’s hold. He squeezed the link next to the watch’s catch, which popped open to reveal an amber-colored pill nestled inside. Terror surged inside Oliver. He clapped one hand over James’s mouth while trying to snatch away the cyanide pill with the other. James clenched the suicide pill in his fist and struggled to get it into his mouth, but he was outmatched. After a desperate struggle, he sagged against the bed and let Oliver confiscate the pill.

“You son of a bitch, you traitor!” Oliver managed past the fear that still threatened to close his throat. “I can’t believe that you would . . .” 

“I’m sorry,” James said, barely louder than a whisper.

“Why? What made you turn traitor?” Oliver stood and faced away. A stupid thing to do, but he suddenly couldn’t stand to look at, much less touch, this man he’d called friend.

“Do you ever wonder about Hachi village?” Oliver didn’t flinch visibly, but he felt the question like a punch to the kidney. “Why four companies were sent to attack one tiny village so far from the front line?”

“Shut up. We don’t fucking talk about that.”

“What is it we can’t talk about, Oliver? What happened to those children? What we did to their corpses, after they were dead?”

Oliver grabbed the front of the doctor’s nightshirt, jerked the older man to his feet and slammed him against the wall, desperate to make him shut up. “We were just following orders. We had to show the rats we were serious. Make them lose morale.” 

“And what did we lose, Oliver? If you could see how much this war has changed you...”

“Me? How about the way the war has changed you, Jim? You’re a traitor. You’re helping the enemy! Have you forgotten the Boardman farm? The Lewis Farm? Seragi valley?"

“And how many Hachi villages have there been? Oliver, it just doesn’t matter anymore. This isn’t a war we should win.” He made the pronouncement with utter finality.

There was no use arguing with him; James was nothing if not stubborn. “They’ll hang you for this.”

“Yes, but unless I’m really lucky, not for a long time yet. Please, let me call Sasha. She’ll need her contingency plan.” James held out his hand in mute request.

“No. No, I won’t let you go. You can’t fucking leave me here.” Oliver banged him into the wall again. Crumpling, he rested his forehead against the hands fisted in James’ pajamas.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“For Mishra’s sake, what am I supposed to do now?”

James tried to laugh. "You're asking me? Do what you have to do. I won't try to stop you. Just please--for the friendship we used to have--let me call my wife."

Oliver just shook his head, denying the situation more than the request. He couldn't report James. He couldn’t even allow the man to commit suicide, because without James he was alone here. “Why would you do such a thing?” Oliver asked, voice barely over a whisper.

James watched the ceiling rather than meet his friend’s eyes. “Because it finally stopped the nightmares.”

The shudder that went through Oliver’s body transmitted itself to the doctor. When Oliver spoke, his voice was sandpaper: “Get rid of the pills. I never want to see that shit again.” He walked out of the infirmary without a word or backwards glance, though he could feel the doctor's eyes upon him. Back in his office, he discovered there wasn't enough alcohol left: barely two fingers of brandy in the bottle, and no sleeping pills to go with it. Oliver made do, poisoning his mind until the thoughts slowed and he could slip into alcohol-muddled nightmares.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver stared at the numbers on the typed report. That fucking bastard. Despite the special treatment meant to isolate him, and despite how closely he was being watched by the guards, Gutierrez was managing to make the captain’s life hell. It had been gradual enough that Oliver hadn’t identified it just from the daily totals. But over two weeks the slowdown was blatant. What was worse was that the ones who slowed their work the most had been consistent top producers. Punishing them with executions, beatings or even loss of rations would seriously deplete the labor force, and with the numbers so skewed it was harder to identify the dead weight for the culling at the end of the month. 

He chose one of the workers who had halved his production and gave his orders. The next morning the prisoners were assembled after breakfast to watch the whipping. Harvey laid the rat’s back open with the first strike. On the forty-third the prisoner fell unconscious and Oliver signaled for him to be cut down and bandaged. The majority of the prisoners were directed to the coal mine, while a dozen were escorted to their duties in the kitchen. Gutierrez was among the latter, and he glared at the captain with ice in his eyes. The captain met his gaze, daring him to continue his little game. 

One and a half weeks later it was clear that Gutierrez had won. The whippings had continued, sometimes twice daily, but the production just kept dropping. Oliver told the guards to keep them in the mine until they had met quota, but that just resulted in more accidents without affecting totals. The captain sat in silent anger, waiting for the call from Command that would mean he was relieved of his duties and cursing himself for not executing the rat the minute he arrived in camp. It was too late now; from watching the way the prisoners looked to him during the whippings, he was certain Gutierrez was the only thing standing between the prisoners and open revolt. Martyr him and Command would have to raze the camp just to stop the riots.

Still, Oliver couldn’t afford to invite Gutierrez to negotiations, so he was glad when the rat requested to speak with him instead. He was less pleased to find out what Gutierrez wanted to speak to him about. “You want me to shut down C tunnel.”

The prisoner inclined his head. “The support beams are badly placed. It is in imminent danger of collapse.”

Oliver scowled. “If I shut down the tunnel, you’ll stop the work slowdown?”

“No. We’ll resume the usual pace when you stop recording individuals’ production.”

It was such an unexpected demand that Oliver answered honestly, “But we need those records to find out who hasn’t been doing their share.”

“For the cullings,” Gutierrez agreed.

Oliver shook his head in wonder. “You want me to stop the cullings.”

Gutierrez nodded.

“That isn’t possible,” Oliver protested. “There isn’t enough food to go around. We stop culling and everyone starves.”

The prisoner cocked his head and watched Oliver with the beginnings of an unnerving smile. The tactician was plotting something. “What kind of leverage would you need to requisition more rations?”

 “Leverage? It doesn’t work like that. There’s a set amount of food allocated for the camp, and that only ever goes down.” After a moment of thought, he said, “If production were to double or something, I could probably get enough to feed all the prisoners, but I don’t see that happening.”

“Of course not. But what if I guaranteed you a production of, say...” He named a figure that made Oliver start laughing.

Feeling magnanimous, if a bit silly to even entertain the idea, Oliver promised, “If you increase production to that much, I’ll stop the cullings.”

Gutierrez nodded. “I’ll take you at your word. What about C tunnel?” 

The captain wasn’t going to budge on that one. “It passed Command’s inspection. We keep using it until it’s exhausted.”

 

* * *

 

Five weeks later, Oliver had received an official commendation from his superiors: the camp had exceeded quota by thirty percent for the fourth week straight. The captain had only had to hint that he needed more food supplies for Command to promise him as much as he required. He ordered Private Benson to bring him Gutierrez in order to assure the rebel leader he would be keeping his part of the bargain, and also to pry a little. Surely the tactician realized that this ore was going to making weapons that would crush the rebellion. The captain wanted to know why Gutierrez was cooperating. His thoughts were interrupted when one of the guards assigned to the mine burst through the door, gasping and dripping sweat. Oliver was halfway to the door, dread certainty in his stomach, even before the exhausted man gasped, “It’s the mine. One of the tunnels collapsed.”

Captain Oliver ran all the way to the mine, outdistancing most of the other guards who had been summoned. Tunnel C had collapsed during routine inspection, and five of his men were trapped or dead, along with a dozen prisoners. Surveying the rubble, the same thought kept repeating over and over in his head: “They said it was safe.” The inspector from command had been completely confident on that point.

Oliver had to assume that the miners and soldiers had been trapped inside and were waiting for rescue. How long would the air last? The rats were standing around, doing nothing. He ordered them to start clearing the tunnel, but they acted as if they didn’t understand. He didn’t have time to deal with them. Calling to six guards, he started them on moving the rubble as quickly as possible. He pitched in himself, and soon his uniform was torn and stained with sweat and dust. He felt feverish, and he didn’t know how long he worked before a beefy hand landed on his shoulder.

It was Mantay. The rat had dared to touch--to restrain, even--the commander of the Eastern prison camp. Obviously the first beating hadn’t taught the rat respect. Oliver reached for his pistol, only belatedly remembering that he had handed his belt and weapon to one of the other guards when it had started getting in the way. Looking up at Mantay, Oliver became uncomfortably aware that, exhausted from digging out the tunnel and with the prisoner unshackled, the outcome of a fight was likely to be in the rat’s favor.

Mantay just raised his eyebrows and said, in a tone that made it clear he had been repeating himself for some time, “You must stop digging now.”

“Mishra curse you, I have men who may be trapped in there! Get out of my way.” Oliver tried to push past but the rat stopped him with one hand on his chest.

“I was a miner for twenty years. I have good rock sense. You dig more, you’ll collapse the tunnel more, everyone will die. You need these beams.” The rats who had been ignoring his orders had managed to haul in a couple of massive support beams from the tunnel’s entrance and were waiting for him to get out of the way to install them.

“We don’t have time! They’ll suffocate soon.” 

“If we push through a pipe, they’ll get air and we’ll be able to talk to them.” Like a magic trick, two rats appeared behind him lugging a long, thin pipe. 

“Oh,” Oliver said. It was embarrassing to rely on a rat’s help, but the man obviously did know mining. “Right. Men, we’re going to try to push this metal pipe through near the top of the tunnel. If we can get it to where they’re trapped, they’ll have fresh air and we may be able to hear them. We raise it on three. One...” Again Mantay blocked him. “What now?”

“You’re too tired, you’ll only cause accidents. You rest. We’ll work now.” When Oliver tried to push past once again, Mantay shoved him over, and the captain’s legs buckled.

Lieutenant Fawkes, who had noticed the exchange, raised his rifle and yelled, “Back away from the captain!”

Mantay ignored him, continuing to speak to the captain. “This is a long run, not a sprint. It will take many many hours, maybe days. We’ll need fresh workers every four hours.” Days? Oliver was horrified. If Mantay was right, they would definitely need to work in shifts. “And Captain? Bring Gutierrez. We need him.”

Oliver desperately wished he weren’t right, but looking around he could already see the power shifting: the guards were too exhausted from digging to pay close attention to the rats, and they were outnumbered four to one. Lieutenant Fawkes couldn’t threaten them all. Gutierrez was probably the only one with the influence to keep the prisoners in line. Unless, of course, the tactician decided this was the perfect opportunity to start a riot.

Guessing the source of the commander’s hesitations, Mantay said simply, “Those trapped men are our brothers. We won’t leave them.” 

Oliver made his choice.

 

* * *

 

Fifty-three hours after the tunnel collapse, the trapped miners crawled out of their stone tomb. They were weak with thirst and hunger and a number had broken limbs. One of the guards had his leg so badly crushed by a falling boulder that it needed to be amputated. One of the rats had a broken arm and another had a cracked collarbone and a serious concussion. Still, all seventeen were alive. Oliver stood at the tunnel entrance, clasping forearms with each of the guards as they emerged, and he noticed Gutierrez opposite him, embracing the rescued prisoners. As if sensing his gaze the rebel looked over at the captain and nodded, one leader to another.

Despite hours of harrowing surgery amputating the guard’s leg, James was almost glowing as he sat in Oliver’s office, drinking a glass of wine in celebration. “Farnsworth will pull through. I’m sure of it,” he proclaimed. 

Oliver snorted. “I thought you were a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to be worried about complications and secondary infections and such?” The captain was still wary around the traitor, but he had so few connections in this place he found he couldn’t cut off his old friend.

“Yes, yes,” he said, brushing away the concern with one expressive hand, “but I have a feeling about this one. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut. Besides, there was hardly any sign of infection even two days after the initial injury, and the blood loss was minimal, considering the extent of the damage.”

“No infection? But I thought those rats stuffed the injury with mold.” It had been a truly disgusting sight.

“Mold and moss. I can’t explain it yet, but believe me I’ll be investigating. The moss stopped the bleeding very quickly, and I suspect the mold has antibacterial properties even stronger than fisk root.”

Oliver sat back and listened to his old friend expound on the possible benefits of this discovery. He savored the cheap wine, and realized it was the first drink he’d had since the cave-in. Between the long hours and the intense physical labor, he’d been sleeping better than he had in many months. James cleared his throat pointedly, and Oliver forced himself to concentrate. “Sorry, what was that?”

James’ mood had darkened considerably. “I asked you what you intended to do with the injured prisoners. It’ll be a month before twelve seventy-two can use his right arm, and eleven-oh-nine’s broken collarbone will prevent him for working at all for at least that long. Are you going to execute them or leave them to starve to death?”

Oliver swore softly to himself. With C tunnel gone there was no way the camp could have met its production quota for the week, even if they hadn’t spent the last three days rescuing the trapped miners. It might take weeks to develop another tunnel to be as profitable, and Command wasn’t known for its patience. The extra food wouldn’t last once production fell again. Executing the injured ones who couldn’t work was the only sensible, humane thing to do. Still, he hesitated.

Finding those seventeen men alive, after all that effort, had been a small miracle. It meant that enemies had sat quietly for days, side-by-side in the section of uncollapsed tunnel. In the dark and the dust, the rats could have easily overpowered and killed the few guards. Instead they had tended to the soldier with the crushed leg; James had no doubt they’d saved the boy’s life. 

“Neither. They can work kitchen duty until they’ve recovered. Their rations will have to be reduced, but they won’t starve. And wipe that surprised look off your face. You knew full well I wasn’t going to let them die.” James’ artful look of surprise morphed into a smug grin. “Oh, like that expression’s any better, you insufferable bastard.” Oliver yawned and leaned back in his chair, letting his eye fall closed. 

It sprang open again when he felt someone removing his eye patch. He looked up into James’ warm brown eyes framed with crinkled laugh lines. “You shouldn’t wear it so much. You’re getting chafing.” James’ fingers brushed over the irritated skin on the cheek below his missing eye, and Oliver felt the stir of helpless arousal at the tender touch.

“James,” he groaned as the older man helped him stand, lowering him down onto the cot in the corner of his office. It was wrong. James had Sasha; he no longer needed the comfort of another soldier’s touch to take him away from the horrors of battle. And Oliver shouldn’t--couldn’t--want this. Even if it was the first time in months another human had touched him and not left a bruise.

“Hush, Oliver. Just rest.”

Oliver let his eyes fall closed to better appreciate the blunt fingers combing through his hair. Even without pills or liquor, he soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Oliver woke the next morning with a sense of peaceful detachment that stayed with him for weeks. The first thing he did was ask for Gutierrez and explain to the former rebel leader that while there was food enough for the moment, that would change soon. Gutierrez looked the captain in the eye and said simply, “While there is food, we will eat. When there is no food, we will not eat. But we will share in both food and hunger equally.” When he left, Oliver gave the order that all prisoners--including Gutierrez--were to be given equal rations. They would eventually starve, but they would starve together.

The tension of a camp on the edge of open revolt had drained away, leaving a strange lassitude in its wake. Guards and prisoners alike knew meeting the quota was impossible and stopped struggling to do so. There was an odd camaraderie between the two groups, forged by three days of struggling side by side against a task neither group could have surmounted alone. It was as if the camp had fallen under a spell of silence and restfulness. Everyone knew it couldn’t last, but no one was willing to break it.

Two weeks later, Oliver decided to eat dinner at home with his family. It was stiff at first, with Anne and the children tiptoeing around him so as not to set off his explosive temper. That nervousness had been one of the things that had angered him the most. But Johnny and Deanna were young and forgiving; soon enough he had Johnny on his lap, fast asleep, while he read Deanna her favorite bedtime story. Anne found him, hours later, standing at the door of their bedroom and watching them sleep. If there were tears in his eyes, she didn’t mention it.

“Anne,” he said softly as they lay side by side in the dark, “I want you to know that... that I wish I could be the man you need. And I know that I’m not.” He could feel the bed shift as she stiffened. “It’s all right. I understand. Just... make sure he treats you better than I did.”

She started sobbing, and trying to speak through the tears, promising him fidelity and holding out a second chance for them to be together. Oliver gathered her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair, allowing himself a moment to imagine, to wish. But he knew the peace inside him was just the eye of the storm, and he never wanted to put his family through the hurricane again.

“I’m sorry, love. You’ll all be better off without me.”

They made love that night for the first time in months, a tender, wordless goodbye. The next morning the storm broke.


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver arrived at the camp to find it stiff with anxiety. The guard at the south gate asked the Captain for his identification card; Oliver couldn’t recall the last time anyone had done that at the Eastern Prison Camp. Nor was the guard the last of his subordinates to snap him a crisp salute before he reached his office. All of which prepared Oliver somewhat for finding a general sitting behind his desk.

“General Cartwright, sir.”

“At ease, Captain. Take a seat.” The gray-haired man gestured magnanimously at the visitor chair. “We have quite a bit to talk about.” Oliver sat and tried not to wince as the general paged through a thick stack of papers. “Your reports have caused quite a bit of confusion back at Central, you know. Your first six months were quite promising; the production consistently hit 90% of quota. Ever since then, the camp’s production couldn’t be more erratic. From 55% to 130%, then down to 35%--in just three months? You know, there are those at central who think you’ve been holding back ore just to impress us on the odd months.” Oliver clenched his jaw and said nothing to that accusation; he couldn’t see any way to explain that wouldn’t leave him seeming weak and incompetent. “Of course, the only ones saying that were men who didn’t know the particular challenges this camp faced.”

“Sir?”

“The rat leader. Gutierrez. The inconsistencies started when he arrived.”

Oliver gave up on trying to understand where this conversation was going. “Yes, sir.”

“Relax, son. The eggheads in Central knew full well sending poison like that to the camp would have a disruptive effect. They’ve been impressed by your handling of the situation. How did you ever convince him to work with you to increase production?”

“Wait, Command knew? What was this, some sort of test?” At the senior officer’s glare, Oliver added a belated, “Sir.”

“Captain, Command knows what it’s doing. We need to break the rats’ rebellion while leaving enough of them to work the fields. Just killing one of their leaders won’t do that, but if we can break the younger brother and turn him against the elder...”

“Then why release him from the interrogators, sir? Why send him to a work camp?”

“The rat has white blood in him; you can see that. It makes him stronger, harder to break. But even the bravest men break when you threaten someone they care about.”

Oliver opened his mouth to protest that the army hadn’t captured anyone Gutierrez really cared about, but was silenced by the memory of the half-breed grasping forearms with Mantay and embracing the prisoners as they climbed from the mine. “The other prisoners. You want to torture them in his place.” 

General Cartwright’s smile was fierce. “He’s had time to get close to them. We’re transferring him back to Central, along with the five prisoners towards whom he has been most protective.” The general dropped sealed orders on the table, then pulled out an unmarked envelope. “I realize it’s upsetting that Central dumped these troubles in your lap, but perhaps this will be a balm for your bruised pride.”

Oliver opened the envelope and stared at the sheets of paper inside, at the gold-embossed seal. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“It’s a promotion to Military Intelligence, son,” the general chuckled. “Surely you can see that.”

“But why? Why me?”

“I should have thought the why was obvious. You seem to understand how the vermin think. After all, you convinced a rat leader to increase the production of our mines; that’s the first crack we’ve seen in the bastard. Given the right resources, we know you can break him.”

Oliver was stunned. He’d put a crack in Gutierrez? It had felt like the other way around. He blurted, “But I’m not a--” Torturer, he was going to say. But not only was that a stupid thing to say to his superior, it wasn’t strictly true. “Surgeon,” he finished awkwardly. “I’m not a surgeon, what use would they have for me?”

Cartwright’s smile was condescending. “We don’t need more interrogators with skilled fingers, we need ones with ideas.”

Oliver considered that. If his superiors saw that potential in him, how could he refuse? Anything that would end the war, stop the starvation and the killing . . . what was a few rat’s lives, or the tattered remains of his peace of mind, against such a goal? As if sensing the younger man’s thoughts, the general continued, “Central hasn’t forgotten how you handled Hachi village. It was brilliant.”

The room grayed out for a moment and Oliver had to remind himself to breathe. “Hachi village, sir?” His voice was empty of emotion and came from somewhere far away. “I was only following orders, sir.”

“You’re too modest. You were ordered to bring back the children, alive, as hostages. We never imagined that crazy bitch would poison all the children, and herself, just to escape capture.”

Flies buzzing around tiny bodies lying on the ground in the heat, curled up as if only asleep. The woman who put her curse on Oliver and his men after drinking the last of the poison herself. The triumphant smile frozen on her face.

“Captain Oliver, are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, sir, I was just thinking about something.”

“Mutilating the bodies, though: that was a stroke of genius. The rats know no one can enter Mishra’s golden fields if not all of their body is buried together. No one else would have thought to take the fingers of dead children hostage.”

No one had wanted to, Oliver remembered. James had been horrified and refused to follow the order. Captain Oliver had finally sliced off the fingers himself. He’d only managed by telling himself that it would surely end the war. What parent would continue fighting, believing that if he did his child’s spirit would wander forever and never reach the Golden Fields?

Yet they had continued fighting, even more viciously than before. None of the rats had even tried negotiating for the return of the fingers. Oliver had miscalculated, had lowered himself as far as he could go, for nothing. The war continued. Rats killed their owners and the owners’ families even more often now.

“It didn’t work,” Oliver pointed out dully.

“Nonsense. You damaged their morale, nearly broke them. With more strikes like that, we’ll win the war in no time.” It was possible, the captain considered, that the general even believed that.

“Who will take over the camp?” Harvey was the obvious choice, but he was inconsistent, wavering between leniency and a vicious temper.

General Cartwright frowned and leaned forward confidingly. “This doesn’t leave this office, understand?” He waited for Oliver’s nod before continuing, “the Greenwell farm was attacked by rebel forces. They overwhelmed the soldiers stationed there and helped the Greenwell slaves massacre the overseers.” 

The Greenwell farm was barely twenty miles north. Even as camp commander, he hadn’t been informed the rebel forces were so close. “And the Greenwells?” He’d last seen Peter Greenwell two months ago at a town meeting. He was a middle-aged man with a young wife and a gaggle of children; was it four? five?

Cartwright shrugged. “One of their slaves remained loyal. He helped the entire family barricade themselves in the cellar and convinced the mob to leave.”

“Thank Mishra.”

“The fate of one family is nothing compared to the loss of the farm,” the general snapped. “There’s no food left for this camp, and the rebel line is getting too close. We’re closing the camp. And we have neither the time nor the resources to relocate the prisoners.”

“You’re razing the camp.”

“To the ground, son,” Cartwright confirmed. A heavy cloak of numbness settled about Oliver. After all his efforts to keep out disease, increase production, keep the prisoners from rioting, the end result would be the same.

The rest of the conversation was a blur. All he could see were the prisoners digging their own grave and piling inside it, three or four deep, to the sound of gunfire. When the world finally came back into focus the captain was standing on the doorstep of James’ townhouse. He couldn’t be sure whether or not he had knocked. Sasha, her heart-shaped face framed by graying hair, opened the door. “Oliver! Won’t you come in?” The captain could only stare at her. “Oliver?” Her smile faded into uncertainty, then fear. “Jim! Jim, come down here!”

“It’s my day off, you know,” the doctor muttered, tying his bathrobe closed as he came down the stairs. “Oliver? What’s the matter? Is there a medical emergency?”

The captain shook his head.

“What’s wrong? Oliver, talk to me.”

“I’ve been promoted. To Central’s Military Intelligence.”

All of the color drained from James’ face. He exchanged a long glance with his wife and clasped her hand. “Thank you for letting us know, Oliver. You’ve been a true friend.” His voice was tight with emotion.

The captain couldn’t take his eyes away from where the doctor’s hand was fidgeting with his watch. There was something important about that, if only he cared to remember.

“Be well, Oliver. You’re a caring man; don’t let them use that against you anymore.”

The finality of the goodbye and the closing door finally broke the shell of numbness surrounding the captain. He grabbed the door and surged forward. “Wait! I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to tell me what to do, Jim.”

The doctor hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the road. “How much time do we have before the military police get here?”

“What are you talking about?” Oliver asked, even as his brain finally put together the clues: the frightened faces, the strained goodbye, the military police, even the damned watch. “You don’t actually think I’d report you, do you? After all these months?”

Jim answered, as gently as he could, “I believe there is very little you wouldn’t do for your country. Though I know such an action would cause you great distress.” The doctor took one of Oliver’s trembling hands between his warm ones. He pulled the captain inside to the sitting room and pressed him into a comfortable chair. “If it wasn’t from reporting us, how did your promotion come about? And why has it caused you such distress?”

Oliver tried to think it through, but it was like building a structure on ice; the foundation kept slipping away. A few minutes later he had a cup of whiskey-spiked tea cradled in his hands. “It was a test,” he managed to say eventually. “Sending Gutierrez to my camp; they were testing me.”

“Why did they do that?”

“They wanted him to have time to heal. To make friends. To learn to compromise. All so that they can break him for good, this time. And as the one who convinced him to cooperate, they want me to do the breaking.”

The doctor sucked air through his teeth. “And?”

“And they were impressed by-- they were impressed with what I did at Hachi village.” The captain took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “They want me to do something like it again. I can’t, Jim. I won’t survive it.”

“But you can’t say ‘no’.”

“If they took it as defiance . . . Jim, I could be put on trial for treason. They’d torture Anne for conspiring with me, or possibly just to break me. Johnny and Deanna would end up in some military orphanage, and you know what those are like; the children would be better off begging on the street.”

“All right, then. Let’s think about this methodically. What do you absolutely need?”

“Need? I . . .” Oliver bowed his head for a moment behind interlocked fingers. When he looked up again, there was solemn purpose in his eyes. “I need to protect my family. I need to know, whatever happens to me, Anna and the children will be all right.” The doctor gave him a wistful smile. James was probably the only one outside the couple who knew how badly things had gone between Oliver and his wife. “Also, I need to never again be asked to make a choice like . . . like Hachi village. I can’t . . .”

James put his hand over Oliver’s hands. “I know. It’s all right. Do you know what you want?” 

Oliver’s heart thudded painfully fast. “What I want? How can I . . .” There was too much; too many impossible things. “I want this war to be over. I want to never have done the things I’ve done. I want to be the man my wife loves. I want . . .” James squeezed his hands, and Oliver stifled the sobs. “I want to protect you and Sasha.” James’ eyes widened slightly, but that was nothing to his shocked expression when his friend continued, “I . . . I don’t want to Gutierrez to be tortured anymore. He’s been through enough.”

“Oliver . . .”

“I want for my men to survive this war without as many nightmares as I have. And I don’t want the camp to become a mass grave.” Oliver realized he was breathing hard and trembling slightly. “That is what I want.”

“All right, then. I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

The captain dropped his eyes. “Neither did I. But it’s true.”

“That’s obvious enough. Now, most important. What are you going to do to get what you need, and as much as possible of what you want?”

The grandfather clock on the wall ticked off the seconds as the two men sat in silence, thinking. After a few endless minutes, Oliver raised his head. “If you can contact the rebels, and if they’re as close to the camp as I think they are, then I have a plan.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

James objected to the plan, of course. Strenuously. Apparently he didn’t approve of anyone but him committing suicide. “Just let me tell the rebels you’re the informant. They’ll have no reason to kill you.”

“You know what Command will think if they inexplicably spare my life.” It was true enough; if there was even a hint of treason the army would have to make an example of him, his wife and his children. Still, the greater reason was that Oliver was tired. Without an end in sight, he didn’t think he could get up in the morning and put on his mask.

In the end, James was forced to accept that. He pulled Oliver into a tight embrace. “I pray this puts your demons to rest.”

The plan formed with surprising ease. Oliver knew Gutierrez’s armed convoy would leave for Central at eighteen hundred on Wednesday; Oliver would ride with them. At that time the prison guards would be split between the transports and the camp itself. It was an ideal time to attack the camp and ambush the convoy. James passed the information to the rebels and assured Oliver that their forces would be ready to strike. Thus it was a rude surprise when Private Benson banged on his office door Tuesday at twenty-one seventeen to tell Oliver the convoy was leaving immediately. “What’s going on?” Oliver demanded of the truck driver.

The bearded man just shrugged. “Orders. We’re leaving in twenty, so you’d best grab your necessaries.” Soldiers hustled Gutierrez and the five prisoners the captain had singled out into the back of the truck. The prisoners wore leg irons and were chained together. Benson and Sergeant Drake bolted the chains to the floor and climbed in after them.

“Sir?” the driver called out in a voice that meant he had been repeating himself. “We’ve got to get a move on.” 

The calm of despair settled over Oliver. The plan was falling apart, but he knew he’d still be dead before he reached Central. He only hoped Anne’s lover had a position that would offer her protection afterwards; the army didn’t look kindly on suicides and often came down hard on their families.

Oliver climbed into the passenger side of the truck’s cab. “Sir? What about your things?”

Oliver brushed the handle of his pistol with two fingers. “I’m sure I’ll be provided with everything I need when I get where I’m going.” The bearded man shrugged, put the truck in gear and followed two armored cars out through the gate.

The truck’s headlights illuminated little besides the vehicle in front of it and a twisting dirt road. Oliver was hypnotized, watching the miles slip by unchanging, sinking deeper into hopelessness. He came back to himself when an explosion flipped the car directly in front of him.

“Mishra’s balls!” the truck driver cursed, swerving to avoid the second car in the convoy and accidentally ramming the first. The cheap metal of the dashboard crumpled, pinning the driver’s leg. “Fucking rebels.” He looked at Oliver; his face was twisted in pain but his eyes were clear. He held out the keys to the truck. “Take the shotgun, Captain. Make sure the prisoners are dead.”

Oliver found the shotgun on the floorboards of the truck’s cab and climbed out. He circled around to the back, trying to stay calm and focused. It was impossible. The silence of despair had shattered into a thousand voices and hopes and fears. His hands were shaking; he dropped the keys twice. Finally he unlocked the door, flung it open and raised the shotgun.

He looked into a pair of terrified gray eyes. It was Private Benson. He remembered that the kid had come to the camp not even knowing how to shoot a gun; it was little surprise that he had lost his and was being used by the prisoners as a human shield. Oliver spotted Sergeant Drake lying on the floor in the back; he couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead.

“Captain,” Benson gasped. Mantay had wrapped his manacle chain around the young man’s neck and was applying enough pressure to make him panic.

Oliver lowered his gun. “Easy, son. Just relax. Reinforcements will be here in just a minute.”

A voice behind Oliver said, “Unfortunately for you.” Oliver hadn’t heard the rebel scout approach, but there was undeniably a cool blade against his throat. Oliver dropped the rifle. Pickpocket fingers snagged the keys and tossed them to the prisoners, who wasted no time in unlocking their chains.

“Haz. It’s been too long.” It was unmistakably Gutierrez’s voice.

“You’re a pleasant sight yourself, sir,” the scout answered.

“Mantay,” Gutierrez ordered, and made a hand gesture. The large man pulled on the chain, almost lifting Benson off his feet.

“Stop! Please, don’t--” Oliver began, but trailed off when the knife pressed harder against his throat. His body--stupid and scared--cringed away from the killing edge before he could remember he wanted to die.

The protest had worked, though, at least for a moment. Gutierrez raised one finger and Mantay loosened the chain to wait for further instructions. The rebel leader shrugged and a smile played around his lips. “It’s all up to you, Captain. Why should we spare him?”

Oliver hesitated, confused. What game was the man playing? “He’s just a kid.” 

Gutierrez raised his eyebrows, but he made a different hand signal and Mantay knocked the boy out with a blow to the temple. The rebel leader stepped down from the truck and stalked over to Oliver. “Just a kid. Not an argument I expected to hear from the Demon of Hachi Village.”

Oliver stopped breathing.

“We sent the children so far from the line of battle to keep them safe, but we always knew there was a chance they’d be taken. We took precautions to minimize their suffering. We never imagined any soldier would be so depraved as to take souvenirs from dead children.”

“You were supposed to surrender. You were supposed to negotiate for their return, so the children could pass on to Mishra’s golden fields.”

Gutierrez shook his head in pity. “Until the day all of my people are free, not a single one of us can pass into the golden fields. Surrendering would only doom us all to limbo forever.

There was silence; Oliver didn’t even try to meet the other man’s eyes. “What are you going to do to me?” he finally asked in a small voice. 

Gutierrez gave him a vicious smile. The man Oliver had come to know over the months in prison--the cautious, deliberate, calm and deferential prisoner--had been eclipsed by rage and scabbed-over pain. “We won’t do anything to you, Captain. We won’t leave a single bruise on you.”

The scout Haz sheathed her knife but kept an arm loosely around Oliver’s neck and put the other around his chest, just below his arms. Afraid that James had given away rather more than he should have, Oliver asked, “Why?”

“Because that’s the question I want your government to be asking. Why would the rebels spare a you if you weren’t a traitor?”

All of the strength went out of Oliver. His knees went weak; Haz’s arm was all that was keeping him on his feet. “Please kill me. However you want, just please . . .” He met Gutierrez’s eyes for a bare moment, and saw inside the man something wounded and vengeful. He knew there would be no mercy, but still he begged, “My wife, my children . . . they’ll be tortured. Please, they have nothing to do with this.”

“Neither did my aunt, my nephews, or any of the other children,” Gutierrez snarled. The rebel made another hand signal and Haz’s arm tightened into a sleeper hold. Oliver had mere seconds before he passed out; if he was unconscious until his reinforcements showed up, his continued survival would be extremely suspicious.

“Wait,” Oliver gasped. The hold cut off the blood flow to his brain, but it didn’t prevent him from breathing or speaking. “I can help you. I know a cave . . .” Little black dots swarmed the edges of his vision and he felt himself weakening. He was released quite suddenly and crumpled to the ground.

Someone grasped Oliver’s chin and jerked it up until he was looking once more into those startling blue eyes. “Why should we care about your cave?” Gutierrez challenged.

“When we don’t reach the checkpoint--they’ll send reinforcements--can’t sneak over the mountain in daylight. Hidden cave--wait ‘till night.” Oliver was having trouble organizing his thoughts and suspected he was babbling.

“Where is the cave?”

“Three miles northeast. Tiny entrance. Hidden by bushes. It isn’t on any maps.”

“Then how do you know about it?” 

“Raised here. As a boy. Fell in once.” He pushed himself up off the ground and tried to sell it. “Room for thirty, maybe more. Off of the patrolled routes. If we follow the deer trail, we won’t leave tracks.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You can kill me there. Take your time. Don’t care. Just don’t frame me as a traitor.”

“Frame you? That seems unnecessary. Right now, you are one,” Gutierrez pointed out in sardonic tones. Haz hauled Oliver to his feet and shoved him towards the forest. “Go on, then, lead the way. But remember that if you try to trick us--or if you fail--your government will learn of your betrayal.”

 

* * *

 

Oliver led the group, trying to move as quickly as possible across the uneven forest floor; they couldn’t use any lights for fear of being discovered, so he found himself tripping and stumbling every few steps. Haz stayed close to his back, constantly scanning the forest for patrols or pursuers. Oliver nearly bolted when a group as large as theirs melted out of the forest to flank them, but the hushed greetings between the groups assured him it was only the rest of the rebels who had attacked the convoy. 

Even in the dark, Oliver recognized the deer trail. He had run this trail every day as a young man, and years later his feet still knew the path. The group made faster progress on the trail worn smooth with use; their confidence was such that they bumped into each other when Oliver stepped off the path to find the cave’s entrance. He stumbled into it, muffling a curse as he fell and banged his head on the low entrance. Haz followed with far more grace; her eyes flared with suspicion when Oliver lit an old oil lamp he had left in the cave along with a couple of blankets and a water bottle. Since returning from the battlefront, there had been times when the captain had needed time alone, and this was the one place no one would be able to find him.

After Haz had determined to her satisfaction that the cave was safe, the rebel group entered and started making camp on the damp stone ground. They didn’t risk a fire, of course, but the rescuers pulled bedrolls, dried meat and hardtack out of their backpacks and offered them all to the rescued. The recent prisoners ate like the starving men they were and canteens of water were passed around.

When all of the food had been consumed, Gutierrez gestured for his captive to come over. Haz thrust a map in Oliver’s face; the captain recognized it as a high-quality elevation map of the type only the military was supposed to possess. “Show us where the patrols are,” Haz demanded. Oliver complied, and also suggested the most likely search patterns they would use to find the escaped prisoners. Gutierrez didn’t say a word. The captain sat, watching his hands, waiting to see what they would do to him but too tired to particularly care. He felt chilled and hot at the same time, and everything had a haze of unreality. Haz took him to a corner and bound him hand and foot. Despite the cold and the hard stone ground, Oliver soon fell asleep.

They waited until dark again to move out. Oliver tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that the patrols would be miles ahead of them by now, but his heart still pounded in his throat at every forest noise. When Haz wasn’t taking point for the group she dropped back to pace the white man, and the suspicion in her eyes was gradually eclipsed by curiosity. “You’re not afraid of us. You’re afraid of your own people.” Oliver’s only response was the tightening of his lips. “Huh,” the rebel scout said before moving back out into the forest. 

The night was steamy and sweat poured down Oliver’s face. He begged one of the rebel thugs for water, but the man just laughed and shoved him. By the time dawn lightened the sky, Oliver was weaving and stumbling as he climbed the mountains, bumping into the other men. Instead of calling a rest, the group of rebels pressed on into the heat of the day. Each time Oliver tripped and fell, someone kicked him in the side and demanded he get up. Oliver was burning. The sun pierced his eye and right into his brain; he tried to shield himself with his hands. Someone grabbed him and pushed his hands down. He fought, but he was just too weak. 

Someone touched his face. “He’s not sweating.” That was Haz’s voice, Oliver thought. “He needs water. Give me your canteen.” There were voices raised in anger and Oliver wished they would just let him leave. “Yeah, he deserves to die, but that’s Gutierrez’s call, not yours.” The water was warm and stale and the most wonderful thing Oliver had ever tasted. There were more voices, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. He walked on. When he fell someone pulled him back to his feet and he continued climbing. Time slipped away.

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver imagined he could feel the cool water soaking into his mouth and throat before traveling down to his belly. The hand that cradled the back of his head and propped him up to drink was familiar: strong, calloused but gentle. He risked opening his eyes; as they adjusted to the dim light he could make out the interior of a wood and daub hut and the rough cot he was lying on. A frail ebony-skinned woman removed his covers and started washing him with a rag. Oliver tried to excuse his nakedness by covering his groin with his hands.

 

“Where . . .?” Oliver managed before he started coughing again.

 

“Best not talk. I know all your questions by heart now, anyway. You’re in a free village, up in the mountains. You’ve been awfully sick for two days now, drifting in, nattering at me, then drifting back out again and forgetting all I said. So just drink some and rest; I’m to take care of you ‘till the fever passes.” The cool rag moved over his skin, slow and hypnotic, washing away the stink of fear and illness. He had to rouse himself to ask his questions.

“Why am I here? What do you people want from me?” Oliver tried to stand, but the woman kept him prone with just a hand pressing his shoulder into the cot. The former captain couldn’t stop his muscles from trembling, even after he let himself fall back.

“You’ll have to ask the Gutierrez boy about that. He must have some reason for half-carrying your lanky carcass here. But it’s not what you’re thinking. He’s not the kind to waste time or food or to risk getting caught, just for the chance to torture someone.”

“The camp change a man.” He remembered the vicious satisfaction in Gutierrez’s expression when he threatened to leave Oliver and his family to be tortured by their own government.

“Mmm. You’d know, wouldn’t you?” She re-wet the rag and brushed it over his face. His eyes closed automatically, and he fell asleep again.


End file.
